The Dwarven Army
by Trollmela
Summary: Twenty-nine years after Smaug's attack on Erebor and the breaking of ties between Erebor and Greenwood, an army of dwarves draws the elf king's attentions. (Part of the "King of Mirkwood" series)
1. Chapter 1

_Set in 2799 TA. The battle mentioned is the Battle of Azanulbizar._

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Twenty-nine years after Smaug's attack on Erebor and the breaking of ties between Erebor and Greenwood, an army of dwarves draws the elf king's attentions.

One followed another in a long line of people that seemed to stretch on forever. Legolas guessed that there were several hundreds of them. The scouts came first, then the standard bearers; those were followed by the royal family: King Thrór, decked in armor with precious stones so numerous that their white glitter caught the elven eye even from so far away; Crown Prince Thráin was no less brightly adorned, although his colors were darker, and with him were his sons Thorin and Frerin. And then came a vast army of warrior dwarves, supply wagons, healers, ponies and boars.

"Three hundred from Erebor," his captain Osean said to his right, "armed for war. They have their ... _war pigs_ with them; heavy armor; wagons with provisions... and more come from the Iron Hills. Our lookouts have seen them."

"And what are they doing on the road south?"

"The army from the Iron Hills is not directed here but also southward. They're going around the forest, since they may not pass through it. Our informants in Dale say that the dwarves march on Moria."

"Moria?!" Legolas' eyes narrowed.

"Yes. A den of orcs and worse things. Yet Thrór seeks to reclaim that ancient dwarven hole."

"Foolish," the king pressed out through his tight jaw. Was there no end to dwarven idiocy?

Almost thirty years had passed since they had drawn a dragon to their kingdom, causing the death of hundreds of men and elves. It appeared that nothing had changed. Again they sought strife and war, most likely walking to their own death.

"Keep a close watch on them," Legolas instructed.

"Yes, Sire."

No longer did Legolas expect to see his father behind his shoulder when he heard the title. But today, he thought he could feel his father's gaze on him, and he wondered whether Thranduil would be proud, or at least approve of him. He supposed that of the latter he could be pretty certain: his father had never liked dwarves.

* * *

It took almost two months until Legolas heard of the dwarves again.

"They return diminished," he was told, and he went again to the edges of the forest and climbed a high beech with blood-red leaves to watch.

A mere fraction of dwarves returned to the Lonely Mountain that day, led by Thorin alone.

"Thrór and Thráin are dead then?" He asked.

"Thrór yes, beheaded by Azog named the Defiler. Thráin's fate is less certain, we have heard. Lost in battle he was, but not among the dead. He may have been taken prisoner, but none have come forth to brag about it, and Moria, though many orcs died defending it, was not conquered."

"They failed then."

"Yes, and many paid for it. Prince Frerin was among the dead, and many other old, valued commanders."

"At least this time, those to blame were also the only ones to bear the cost," Legolas only said, and there was dark satisfaction in his voice.

Osean nodded next to him.

"Only Prince Thorin remains of the line of kings, and he gained a sobriquet: they call him Oakenshield now."

"Do they?" Once he would have been curious; now his eyebrows drew together into a fierce frown reminiscent of Thranduil and he said: "It changes nothing. There can never be friendship between elves and dwarves, no matter who sits upon the throne of Durin."


	2. Chapter 2

_This chapter was inspired by honorste's comment, so thanks for the inspiration!_

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The clang of armor and weapons was loud in Thorin's ears. Far in the distance he thought he could see a glimpse of the dragon's bones, bleached by the sun and picked clean by fearless vultures until nothing but that skeleton remained. Who knew what curse lay upon it. And yet, Thrór had sent workmen to chip off dragon scales from the corpse, and now they featured in various works of armor owned by the royal family.

That armor they would need when they marched on Khazad-dûm, and it was being gathered at this very moment in the great halls of Erebor behind him.

The Mirkwood rose as a shadow to the west, and, as often, it weighed on Thorin. He remembered Legolas when he still bore the title Prince, but things were much changed now; where Thranduil had retreated to preserve his people, the War King attacked. Thorin did not doubt that Legolas loved his people any less fiercely, but perhaps because he lacked his father's experience of even darker days, he was less likely to yield. A bitter end to diplomacy and all ties between Erebor and the Great Greenwood he had promised, banning the dwarves from his realm entirely, and that promise he had kept. No dwarf had dared set foot into the forest since Thorin had been escorted out of it.

"What are you thinking of, my prince?"

Thorin glanced at the dwarf that now appeared on the battlements next to him.

"Things," he only said.

It looked as if Balin's eyes strayed to the same landmarks Thorin had taken in.

"The king has received news from the Iron Hills. Two hundred warriors they promised."

Thorin nodded. He had expected no more and no less.

"You still do not approve of Thrór plans?" Balin asked.

The Prince glanced about them, but no others were close enough to hear them. It would not do for the public, more importantly, for the warriors doomed to die – for at least some most certainly wood – to know that their Prince was against the campaign.

"The orcs have been gathering in the mountains ever since the elves chased their master out of Dol Guldur. It is said that their leader, a great pale orc, is particularly cunning. The campaign is far from easy, and, I think, unnecessary." Thorin grimaced. "We have Erebor!"

"And successfully defended it against the dragon," Balin agreed, taking up the king's words. "What better time to reclaim another great dwarven kingdom of old? King Thrór would have your father rule there, to later leave Erebor in Prince Frerin's hands and Kazad-dûm in yours. Does that thought not make you proud?"

Thorin glowered. "I do not need Kazad-dûm. Don't think I'm untouched by the knowledge that our ancient realm has fallen into the hands our most hated enemy. But even if we lay waste to the army of orcs that will doubtlessly defend it, none have mentioned yet the evil that is said to dwell deep in Kazad-dûm and killed Durin VI. It is there still, and what accounts there are of it make it clear that it is not easily defeated."

That silenced Balin for a while. Apparently, he had not thought of Durin's bane, or forgotten it like so many others appeared to have, caught up in Thrór's great promises.

"You think it's the gold, don't you?" There was fear in Balin's eyes, and his voice was barely a whisper.

Thorin only nodded mutely with another look around. Old legends told of gold sickness, but Thorin had not seen it, had not realized it, until decades ago when King Thranduil had come and his grandfather had taunted and refused him the promised necklace of mithril. The dragon had attacked not long after that, and he should have been a wake-up call; but he had not cleared their heads for long.

And perhaps the king was not the only one afflicted with delusions of grandeur. As the mountains of wealth grew and filled the treasure halls to bursting, the Ereborian dwarves' pride increased. But there was a point where that pride became too great, a point where it became madness.

The campaign to reclaim Kazad-dûm was, in Thorin's eyes, such madness.

If their campaign was victorious, great glory and treasures would go to the dwarves of Erebor (and their allies). And if not? Thorin feared few things, but the answer to that question he did.

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 _Thanks for reading and reviews are always welcome._


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